The Dogs of Blumsburg
by Cruton
Summary: The strange final fate of Charles Evenson.


Charles was still in Boston when somebody started killing the dogs of Blumsburg. It started slowly, a stray hound there, a pit bull guard there. People ignored it at first; awful things happened in the shadow of the cold mills. Then the police pursued it half-heartedly. Within a week, a couple dozen exsanguinated canines had been found scattered across town.

When the old Greyhound finally rumbled in, the sluggish Red river was being trawled for the wild dog pack that had mysteriously stopped plaguing the streets. Big dogs, three rottweilers and even a wolfhound, with their throats and chest torn open and ragged. Teeth were shattered and ground into bloody gums. Skulls had been beaten in by hammer blows. Ten dogs in all, and the police couldn't decide if they should call in animal control or the sheriff's office. Charles was unpacking his dirty laundry by the time the evening news begged residents to keep their children inside.

Feeling too exhausted to cook, Charles took a walk down to the VFW post for a cheap dinner. The bar was silent with dark brown shadows listening intently to the meaningless hum of Nixon's address. Charles blinked, remembering suddenly the protests he had seen at Harvard Square as he and Mary went for drinks. He couldn't bring himself to care, either way, about the Vietcong or the draft. He had heard enough of that debate during the first war. He waved down a buddy of his, Matherson, his old plant engineer, and ordered the next round.

Mary was still good, he said. She's still working, she can still type like the wind. She's got a boyfriend now. He didn't mind, he said. How's life at the company? Dogs, what dogs? Jesus Christ, that's terrible. Makes you wonder about some people. Sure it's a person. Who ever heard of a bobcat using a sledge? Laughter. You're alright, kid. Who's the new guy, anyway? Three bears and a burger stored away, Charles stumbled back through the silent streets. Blumsburg was down another mill and you could hear it, the lazy town finally crushing under its own weight. Wasn't it silent? That's strange, there weren't any cats. Or birds. Or—

Charles crossed himself as he passed the cemetery. He got back home and hit his bed so hard he even slept through the creaking door opening to peer at him.

The mail he found in the morning was good. His pension check came, and so did a letter from James. The young man was still getting used to being deployed; black censor bars hiding his description of port. He kept forgetting he wasn't supposed to say that stuff. A proud chuckle warmed Charles' throat. Join the army, son, yes, yes, join the Navy, learn some trade and learn some discipline, see the world and start a nest egg and when you come home, you'll be a hero. And kiss a pretty girl when you're over there – you'll have one up on your old man, then.

The week arrived like an old friend. Paper work down at the union hall. Letters to lick at the VFW office. A day trip up to the VA to have his ticker checked out. Mornings with Eisenhower's musty old memories because the radio pundit had said they were a must read for any red-blooded American and warm evenings with whiskey and a Henry Miller a fellow at the office had slipped him with a wink. He bought a paper with his coffee after lunch, when he wandered the park for digestion, and sometimes he'd crack it to see how the Bruins were doing. All this talk of dog mutilations slid off of the front pages, when there were no more dogs to mutilate, no more dogs willing to go outside. Charles missed a truly wonderful photograph on page 11, taken by an amateur out in the woods. The woman glowed like a glass statue in the full moonlight and it was curious, because she was wringing her hands. Charles was a sound sleeper and never heard the soft footsteps pacing up and down his halls, whispering frantic rehearsals of what to finally say to him.

By the month's end, Blumsburg was preternaturally silent. The songbirds had fled.

Those nights, Charles dreamt of knives. Short, steely pin-pricks running across his neck, push-pin fingers tracing his throat, with care and workmanship, measure twice before you cut once. He dreamt of the cool, dry breath that echoes in caves under the earth. He dreamt of gravestones piling on top of him, crowding in on him, trying to burrow through him like a pack of worms. He dreamt of blue-bird hags crouched on top of him darning their socks of steel gage and venom tears; their talons dug into his ribs as their behemoth weight crushed the breath from his lungs. And worst of all, he dreamt of Ohio and in those dreams, the river ran through him and opened his organs. The dreams stopped with news that a zoo lion two towns over had been eaten.

The old veteran called Mary to see how her spinal tap went. He ended up talking to Bill instead. He rather liked Bill. The two of them got along famously; people had thought they were old chums. When he visited her in Boston, Charles had ribbed Mary about how curiously unoriginal her taste in men was. She sipped her beer sadly and left it at that. He sometimes found it odd that the divorce had never hurt him; it just seemed like the natural course when it came. Charles and Mary never had the perfect marriage. They only made it work for James' sake. And when their young man started to worm around outside the nest, they silently agreed it was time and explained it to him over the kitchen table. Do oceans ever fight the tides? Charles decided he should read up on it sometime.

That was one of the things that always got under Mary's skin – this inane armchair scholarship that didn't seem to go anywhere. She insisted that Charles was just a know-it-all and it needled him in turn, to not be taken seriously. A happy couple could have made a private joke. They made another thing you didn't bring up over dinner. They had a list of them as long as hindsight. Mary's brother had had the right idea. The night that Charles asked out the pretty secretary giving him the eye, Paul Bewett socked him the parking lot of the Buffalo and told Charles to stay the Hell away from his sister. Charles never held it against Paul and they laughed about it at the wedding reception. Who could blame him? Paul had heard some bad things about Charles' first-

A guilt settled on Charles for the rest of the day. He dutifully went up to the attic and dug out the last picture he had saved of Esme. The faded print saddened him further. Her face should have been spring fresh, tawny and bubbling and bashful with the bumblebees and swaying grass, but the blurred photo lost something of her. He sat up that night, staring at her lost face, wondering about her and his dead son, trying to will the man he was now back in time upon himself. But it was half-hearted. If he hadn't hurt Esme, would he have met Mary? Would he have had James? Would he have worked at this plant? Met these friends? Learned those lessons? Live this life? He winced at the sudden memory of smacking her. Charles fell asleep at the table after a toast to a woman in Heaven. He dreamt of crying and woke to find the photo missing and his front door open.

People were using the term Blumsburg Devil by this time. They saw her hiding in the canal. They spotted her curled up in the church steeple. They followed her leaping across the rooftops after she was caught snatching up a terrier. Lots of versions of the story have circulated. Some artists' renditions put her as a wild woman covered in filth and blood. Some old photos and films prove she was a UFO. At first she was monstrous, then luminous, then numinous, then a ghost and a pixie and a giant frog. A few people still remember her. A Chick Tract exorcises her to prove the love of Christ. Leave a dead cat out in the forest for her and she'll curse that bitch who stole your tampons when you had a heavy flow. A local bar sells the Devil's Kiss – the bottle has a busty, bawdy blond with devil's horns and tail slutted over the label. It's a pilsner and it sucks.

Now, Charles was aware he had a prowler. He owned a gun, a sturdy Winchester revolver, and he fished it out of the safe to clean it and check the mechanism. He sat up a night. At first, he listened for creeks in the floor and ignored the wind, but it occurred to him it wasn't the wind, but the sound of something feathering the boards. It was like fishing: waiting patiently until the faintest signs appeared, then sneaking forth with exquisite care, trying not to startle until his hands were around the dirty bum's neck... But nothing. He chased shadows.

He alerted the police, but with the embarrassment of an old man who knew how silly he sounded. Charles invited his friends over regularly, to keep the house packed and noisy. But after two weeks, few could suffer his generous hospitality. Charles had no choice but to stand a lonely watch, chasing the rushing whispers around his own home. Tiny feet jumped off his roof, bounced off his walls, scampered around his corners, leapt out behind his back, and slammed his doors as morning approached. The game drained him, night after night, stretching almost into a month. Paranoia came naturally to Charles. He wept constantly. He'd just slump against the wall sometimes, totally defenseless, babbling hatefully. A guilty elfin face peered around the corner when he did this and one night, Charles Evenson saw it.

He understood.

The stories of the Blumsburg devil reached their climax. A man saw her clinging to his window, lips quivering with obvious desire. His scream startled her off and evidently saved him. Charles wasn't a spiritual man, but he phoned Mary with a cryptic goodbye and went to confession. At twilight, he opened the front door wide and sat down at the kitchen table to wait.

She finally appeared near one in the morning. She came walking down the street, dressed with care in a blouse and a conservative skirt that you would've saved for Sunday, holds folded in front of her in the contrite hope of a rabbit – Charles recognized what was left of her. He switched off the radio and waved to the nervous woman to come in, downing a fifth shot of whiskey to steady his reeling brain.

Death looked stylish on Esme Platt. Her ruddy, sun-spotted skin had faded to a magnificent alabaster sheen. Her limbs were slimmer, surer, statue-esque in their discipline. Her strawberry-blond locks shone like wires of polished gold and bronze woven in a fractal angel's dance. But Charles couldn't believe it was her. There was too much missing: no fruitless bad hair days, no tear-stained cheeks, no running noses, no fingers sucked at the bite of a hot pan. The dark pits below her eyes made her look like one of the ingenues of the silent film era – a woman lost beneath the heavy make-up and sharp lighting and the exaggerated poise of lumbering technological compromises. Yes, a silent film, project on his walls to make it look like his suicidal first wife had walked through the door.

"Hello, Charles." She offered. "Thank you for seeing me."

Charles had expected something more direct from the apparition. He was at a lost for words. He numbly gestured to the other end of the table. "...you should sit down. You must have come a long way."

"Yes." Esme sank into the chair. They watched each other's hands. She was impossible to read – an unambitious portrait by a skilled-by-dull painter. The uncanny stillness froze Charles' blood.

"Dear God, what are you doing here?" He murmured.

"Do you know what I am now?"

"A ghost?"

She laughed sadly at that. "I shouldn't have come here. I'm dangerous around this many people. I'm powerful now – stronger than you can imagine – but it's like a dog on a leash. It's hungry and I've scared away the prey. It's getting so hard not to-"

Esme paused and lowered her head in shame. "If I had just come right out and seen you, then maybe I would've been okay, but I kept putting it off because you scare me. I could tear you in half and you still scare me."

He was aware of how dumpy he must have looked, a doddering old man, dangling confusion and shame. "Esme, I know what kind of man I used to be. I... understand what I did to you, even if there's nothing I could say to answer for it. I know you must hate me."

"I can't hate you, Charles. I could never hate you. I wish I could – goddamnit, I wish I could hate you with all the fires of Hell. But it won't let me." Esme clutched the side of her head in frustration. She growled. "This would've been over with weeks ago if I could hate you. But it's like a bright light and my mind is made of tissue paper. Not matter what I want to feel, no matter what normal people need to feel to move on with their lives... it just shines through and makes everything so beautiful. I used to think it was the greatest blessing in the world, until I saw you again. You still haunt my dreams, but when I came here to put you to rest once and for all, you're laughing at me from behind an old man with a wonderful life and wonderful son and a proud legacy, better and prouder than I think anybody but me could appreciate."

A pale milky white tear slid down to her ruby lips. "What would you military types call it?"

Charles' throat dropped. "Hiding behind civilians."

"God damn it to Hell." Esme put her head down on the table in perfect grief. Charles reached out in sympathy and caressed her stony knuckles. She pulled back with a shuddering hiss. Her breathing became ragged, though it didn't bring color to her face. Charles inched his hand back towards his revolver. Esme's panting unleashed a miasma of stagnant sepulchre air.

"Oh, oh, god, you shouldn't have done that..." Esme squeezed her eyes shut. Charles carefully, slowly leveled the gun at her face. It didn't bother her. Saliva, the same unhealthy chalk color of her tears, oozed between her lips as the attack made her nipples rise. "It's coming! It's... it's boiling inside me, Charles! You woke it up and it's coming! Oh god! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, but it's too strong now!"

"Esme, honey," Charles gulped and cocked the hammer back. "What should I do?"

Her eye snapped open, a galaxy of spinning gold and molten glass and murderous suns screaming out of a black nowhere as big as the world, waiting to be filled. Esme's lips curled back in a feral whine, back over her long ivory knives, wet with venom. Her voice had shrunk down to a mouse's plea.

"I don't know."

Charles fired.

Nearly a month later, Esme came stumbling down the side of the Missouri interstate, filthy, disoriented, exhausted even by the standards of her kind. Edward heard her the second she entered the county and rushed to meet her in the old Ford. She moaned in her son's arms as they sat next to the road, curled together, leaning against the tires of the fixer-upper. He drove her out to a farm he had seen and watched his starving mother render a cow down to its marrow. Even though he didn't know it, he was already composing the song to remind her she was a miracle and not a monster. But now, his attention was on the others back home, each of them so muted with worry he couldn't tell them apart. Only Carlisle stood out, a saturnine mind in an old leather chair in a shadowy study, wondering if he had been too much the paramour and not enough the father.

But that's another story. How does the legend of the Blumsburg devil end? With the flameless explosion of old Charlie Evenson's house. He never spoke of the events that night, not to the police or a priest or even Mary and Bill. Something had broken his ribs and punctured his lungs. He would die in the VA hospital with a tube down his throat. The legend spread and grew over the years – Charles became an agent of the Russians and the CIA and Nixon and Planet X. His name now appears in five books detailing the secret history of the United States. The Blumsburg Devil became his nemesis and his ally and his brother and his sister and, strangest and most perverse of all, his wife. Can you imagine how ridiculous that looks?

"I married a dog-sucking bat-beast! I did it for the sex! JFK and Robert Ford told me to do it through a blessed heroin needle!"

Charles died weeping. He died in a reflective state of mind, lucid in those last few moments. He died alone, in a sterile room he had memorized too well, nothing to distract him, nothing to let death sneak up on him kindly. He died with the face of his dead wife burned into his eyes and her geological screams echoing in his ears. He never thought of what followed death and as he felt the life slip out of his skin, he only knew it was more terrible than anybody had warned him. And he would die without his son.


End file.
